Our “nutties,” a.k.a. our backyard squirrels,
Await me every morn when I cast out
Their dole of peanuts, while our canine girls
Chase after them, putting them all to rout.
That ruckus done, they come back in for treats
Of Greenie nubs, then I sit down to write
While counting out my lines in iamb beats
In hope of finding pleasure and insight.
I never know where any poem will go
And what delight I’m likely to discover
As I compose my lines row after row,
Each rhyme word seeking for its phonic brother.
Most typically, as now, a sonnet comes,
Which sometimes sings or merely, as here, hums.